Come What May
by one four two nine seven eight
Summary: When Malfoy calls the trio together long after their years at Hogwarts, light is shed on what really happened to them all. Warning: slash lies within these walls.
1. Prologue

- Come What May -

Notes: First and foremost, I would like to thank the following people for their support through the writing of_ Tapestry_, the reviews of which truly felt like hugs when I read them: moonfire, Ariel, Gwen, katsuai, A-Chan, sweetgirl, Sorceress Jade, Sydney, mysticalcancer, smooth volt, Piri Malfoy, Spite, Jedi Ginny, Saralyn, whippy, Illumina, Myr, le-blanc-jasmin; and, of course, Hopper, without whom I would probably not be writing still. I thank you all for encouragement and for simply taking the time to review.

Secondly, I would like to make several points known. Please keep in mind that, for some odd reason, I was under the impression that Fred & George Weasley (played by the adorable James & Oliver Phelps, respectively) were only one year ahead of Ron, when in fact they are ahead by two; I apologize ahead of time. Also, I believe I kept with the events in the books, and hopefully the events and time line match up between chapters; but if anyone finds a loophole in my logic I would appreciate being told right away. 

Thirdly, I would like to make it known that there is, indeed, slash in this piece of fiction. Though it was dually noted in the summary, perhaps some squeamish 'phobes have wandered in uninvited, in which case I would like to tell you to flee (quick like bunnies) before you send flames which will be laughed at and promptly destroyed. The characters in this story do not exist in reality, but they do exist in Rowling's world. She and Warner Bros. own them; I, very sadly, do not. No suing or I will laugh even harder, for I am but a penniless writer who, above all things, believes in love.

The title of this story was inspired by the film _Moulin Rouge_, which everyone should see.

* *

Chapter One: Prologue

* *

Ronald Weasley gazed up at the shining gold numbers above the door before glancing once again at the weathered envelope in his calloused hand. With a heavy, tired sigh, he lifted his second hand to the massive gold knocker and gave it a loud rap. The noise echoed through the house until the door opened silently to the curiously melancholy eyes of a house-elf. This particular house-elf was wearing a frayed bit of blanket as a sort of kilt and a matching bit of blanket as a scarf draped about its drooping shoulders. Ron winced as it bowed its head politely and allowed him entrance to the young Malfoy estate before he had told it his name or business.

Because the house-elf was allowing him into the house without so much as a word, Ron was sure that the house-elf recognized him in some way, and this fact bothered him as he was lead through marble- and velvet-strewn corridors lined with priceless paintings and expensive vases. When the house-elf brought him into a very large and very empty lounge with sweeping glass doors which opened to a veranda and gardens, he remained on his feet, toying with the rapidly decaying brim of his hat.

His grey eyes grazed the pretty things in the room: the rugs covering expanses of swirling grey and black marble, the golden frames holding enormous mirrors and paintings, the delicately glazed vases holding arrangements of beautiful and rare plants, the costly trinkets and baubles encased in gauzy glass, and the gold and black and red velvet hangings in doorways and windows. He felt inadequate against such luxuries, his own brown shoes falling apart at the seams and simple, clean robes dulled against the elegance of this room.

Reluctantly, Ron took a seat on the edge of a blood-red divan strewn with unnecessary pillows and an odd blanket tossed over its low arm. His hat found itself on the cushion next to him as he peered through the wide windows, into lush green gardens and a perfect azure sky. It had been a long while since he had allowed himself to spend even a short moment to admire the beauty of the world around him, let alone since he had been put in such a position to behold the unnatural beauty of a house like this.

Behind him the doors were opened by the unfortunate house-elf, and his tired eyes flickered to the newcomer at the door. The house-elf ushered a stately woman, dressed in a long and flowing cloak adorned with delicate silver threads at the cuffs and hems, into the room and left again before Ron or the woman could have asked it a question or commented on its unusually obedient demeanor. As the woman took a seat in a plush chair across the room, Ron took a moment to observe the graceful yet insecure way in which she moved and her nervous habit of running her fingers along the edge of a pocket which, Ron supposed, held her wand. Without realizing himself, Ron's own fingers jumped to the end of his wand, barely present above the decaying hem of a pocket in his robes.

The stately woman across the room did not appear to be at all in awe of the wealth in the room, nor did she appear to have any interest whatsoever in Ron; however, while she thought his eyes roamed over the spotless floors, he noted the long, anxious glances she cast in his direction every few moments.

It was a very long and silent time before the doors were again opened by the humble house-elf, who this time sported the beginnings of a large and painful bruise above its enormous left eye. Apparently it had done something naughty and had punished itself. Ron turned away from the house-elf, feeling the long and sympathetic gaze the woman sent in its direction as it shut the doors behind a hesitant man with dark hair. This man did not move from the doorway until he had studied the woman and Ron from a safe distance. When he did finally move, he sat in the divan next to that which Ron had seated himself, but remained a fair pace from the woman. She appeared perturbed that he would rather sit nearer to Ron than a woman of her stature.

When the house-elf returned, it bowed until its ears nearly touched its knees as a blond man swept into the room wearing elegant robes lined with a bit of grey and white fur. He summoned a stiff wooden chair from against a wall and sank into it as though it were more comfortable than those plush cushions in which the rest had themselves chosen. The woman shifted in her chair uncomfortably, fidgeting with her pocket more often than before. Ron forced his hand away from his own wand as the blond man cleared his throat in a clean, purring sound.

"Welcome," he said smoothly, pale eyes moving from figure to figure until the lot of them were shifting in their seats. He seemed pleased with this, and continued, "I'm sure you're all wondering why you're here together. Well, why you're here at all." Slipping from his chair in a fluid movement, the blond man floated past them to the sweeping glass doors and made as if to lean against the frame. In fact he was completely self-balanced, but still held the air of being completely as ease with himself and with them as they squirmed nervously in their respective robes.

"For some of you it must be painful to see one another again," he said. His voice dripped with a steel edge, his words filing liquidly from his tongue as though they had been rehearsed a thousand times before in similar situations. "I know that it's a bit unraveling to see the three of you again, though I must admit that seeing some of you is more difficult for me than others." His eyes were suddenly upon Ron, who sat rigid in his seat and now felt the back of his neck going as red as the hair on his head. "But enough from me." The house-elf opened the doors and glanced nervously at the blond man before retreating sullenly into the corridor.

The blond man smile gave the impression that his teeth were made of diamonds as they sparkled in the rapidly diminishing sunlight from outdoors. "It's time, now, for a bit of supper."

*

The table in the dining room was much too long for four people, but somehow its placid appearance played off of the rough masonry of the massive fireplace at one end of the room quite nicely. By focusing his attention on the glory of each room, Ron found himself quickly forgetting the awkward nature of seeing these people again. 

The blond man had swept into the room and seated himself at the head of the table, sitting back to watch as they filed into the much darker room with an air of sympathetic amusement. The house-elf brought in drinks for them, which it poured dutifully and winced when the woman thanked it. The blond man's amusement faded then, and the house-elf disappeared through a smaller side door to once again punish itself for being noticed by company. The woman had blanched and was more than ever toying with her wand pocket. The blond man did not seem to notice.

"You are certainly quiet this evening," he chuckled into his soup and silver. "There was a time, Ms Longbottom, that it took a great deal of effort to ensure that you stop talking; now it seems quite a task to ensure the utterance of one word." The woman had flinched at the name he had dropped so casually, but continued to stir her soup between tiny spoonfuls. The blond man chatted casually, ignoring the anger mounting in the hesitant man's eyes or the humility in the woman's face.

"Or is your correct surname Longbottom anymore?" he asked wistfully, almost indifferent to the answer. The spoon the woman had been holding hit the edge of her bowl with a _clink_, and everyone in the room but the blond man jumped from the noise. 

"I've taken my maiden name back," she said softly. With teary eyes she glared down the table at the blond man, who was listening intently as she corrected him. "It's been, actually, several years since I've used that name."

"I see." He seemed rather pleased with himself for having disturbed her so. His attention shifted to the hesitant man, whose anger had reverted to pure condolence for the former Ms Longbottom. "And you, Potter -- How have things been going for you lately? I don't believe I remember what you've been up to all this time?"

Just as soon as the woman had taken up her spoon again and resumed eating, Potter addressed the blond man with a razor edge in his voice.

"Hogwarts business," he said shortly, "I know you don't think it much, but it's rewarding if one has the patience to see the position through." The blond man looked delighted to hear this.

"You've returned to Hogwarts?" Potter nodded curtly, his emerald eyes attempting to pierce the blond man with miniature daggers. "Marvelous! Does this mean Dumbledore has finally filled the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor?" Again Potter nodded, his gaze softening only slightly. "It's very appropriate, with all you've been through. My congratulations, Mr Potter. A worthy position of you." He smiled, and the wary glare returned to Potter's eyes; it was not apparent to any of the three if the praise had been meant as a mocking or sincere gesture.

The blond man turned again to the woman, who had composed herself. "Miss Granger, then, is it?" She nodded, her fingertips toying with the delicate crystal of her glass. "What have you been doing with yourself?"

"Since Neville, you mean?" she said hotly. He ignored her fiery tone and leaned in as though to hear her better. "Nothing as fabulous as you've done, I'm sure. But the _Prophet _has been happy with both the writing and detective work I've done, so I'm content with my position."

The blond man seemed to have been expecting more from her, surprised that she should have stopped so abruptly. "And . . . the family?" Her gaze never left his as she answered, and she clasped her hands on the tabletop. 

"Wesley will be attending his first year at Hogwarts this fall, and Ryce has top marks in his class." 

"A child after your very own," he approved in a hum. Seeing he would not be getting as much from her, the blond man turned at last to Ron, who had been watching Potter for the duration of these exchanges, and studied his modest robes and drawn features. "And you, Ron," he mused, "I've been watching your career most carefully. How is it now that Quidditch is no longer a real option?"

Ron, delighted to finally be the focus of the conversation, tore his eyes from Potter and met the blond man's inquisitive gaze. "I've taken a job at the Ministry. I've not needed the money -- not really, anyway, since the Cannons have been taking good care of me. But -- my parents -- you know . . . " The blond man nodded, encouraging Ron to continue. "Well, Mum's fallen a bit ill, and Dad -- well, Dad's been Dad and won't let any of us help pay for the doctor's bills. Insists on working overtime for as little money as the Ministry's willing to pay him." He smiled knowingly, first at Potter, then at the woman, whose eyes had misted over again. "I've been putting most of the money I've been making directly into their account at Gringotts with a bit of luck and more than a bit of help from Bill."

The house-elf changed the plates as Ron spoke, sweeping the half-filled and cold soup bowls onto a trolley and scurrying out of the room in silence. It returned a moment later, and another bruise was forming on its upper arm. It refilled the drinks around the table and left without a word or glance to any of them.

Weasley's gaze fell to his supper, the back of his neck beginning to blaze, but he said, "It's been quite a scandal at our house. Mum is furious because one of us is helping them with the bills, but none of us will admit to it. Really it's been all of us, even Ginny, bless her heart." 

The blond man tilted his head in question, and Ron supplied, "Her husband died just a short while ago, and she's been putting in more time at the Ministry as well. The twins have been looking after her, with their shop in Hogsmeade doing as well as it has." The woman had cringed at the mention of the twins, and her reaction did not go unnoticed. It was the blond man only, however, who lacked the tact to ignore it.

"Why, Miss Granger, it seems as though you have some unresolved business with the Weasley twins?" Potter glared at the blond with a passionate loathing, and Miss Granger glanced at Ron before speaking.

"If I do it is nothing to do with you." He grinned, impartial to the tears gathering in her eyes and the grating in her voice.

"Oh dear, I seem to have struck a nerve." He raised an eyebrow into his platinum hair. "Do tell us, Miss Granger. I'm sure even Ron would like to know of this." Granger remained silent, but it had been too long a moment of silence for Potter.

"Can't you see that we are not here for you to torture us anymore?" he shouted, on his feet in a second and knocking his chair backwards. "Seven years of this sort of hell is bad enough, but inviting us all back for more after a decade is ridiculous." His eyes flashed as he glanced at the other two. "I know I speak for myself at least when I say that I won't stand for it."

The blond's amusement faded completely, a stone gaze hardening in his pale eyes and fair features. He paused a moment, allowing Potter's outburst to echo through the hall before saying in a dangerously low voice, "I did not bring you back together for my own entertainment; however, if the situation appears that way, I apologize sincerely. I merely called you here tonight because it has been brought to my attention that we all left off on a bad note, and it has been affecting us even after so many years." Potter lowered himself into his chair once more after it had been righted, and was now glowering into his plate in silence. The blond's gaze flickered across to the woman.

"Now, Granger, you owe it to your red-headed friend to tell him of this business with the identical Weasleys, and I suggest you do so before I become angry." He looked at Potter again with a challenge in his eyes. "It is not wise to cross a Malfoy, Potter, even when you are right." The pale eyes narrowed dangerously. "The Malfoy will always come out ahead."

*

The study of the young Malfoy estate was decorated with dark, cherry-paneled walls, blood-red carpets, and a fireplace even grander than that in the dining room. Impressive bookcases stretched from floor to ceiling, filled with dusty volumes and ancient parchments. Malfoy had ushered Potter, Miss Granger, and Ron into this shadowed room and given them a moment to make themselves comfortable in the furniture which had appeared so uninviting upon arrival but proved itself otherwise.

"Well," Malfoy announced, taking a seat beside the hearth. "It is obvious that we have kept secrets from one another. The betrayals and misunderstandings have truly torn your little trio apart, leaving me no other choice but to bring you here this evening to sort things out. If it takes you hours to recreate the bond you left behind at Hogwarts so many years ago, then my home will be host for as long as it takes. You all have private suites for the duration of your stay here, and I hope they will accommodate your needs.

"Now, however, it is time to begin this," he said simply, his gaze drifting with a lazy intensity from one figure to the next. "Each will tell his story; each will listen to the others. In the end, we will see what we have not been able to see in the past, and we will not accuse nor blame nor argue. This is to be a time of healing and reconciliation, not of hurt and revenge. I will not tolerate emotional immaturity."

The room went silent save for the comforting crackling of the fire in its stone hearth, and no gaze met another as the quartet watched the floor with great interest. After a very long moment, Malfoy's pale eyes found the teary visage of Miss Granger, and he spoke.

"Ladies first, Hermione." She glanced up sharply, blanching severely. "Begin at the beginning of things running afoul, and end with present day. Omit anything you deem necessary, but remember that one word missing might change the big picture for the rest of us." He was encouraging as he added, softly, "Go on, then. We're listening."

In the dancing firelight, Hermione Granger took in a long and shaking breath, and began her tale.

* *


	2. The Hermione Granger Scandal

Chapter Two: The Hermione Granger Scandal

* *

Notes: This was amazing fun to write. Specifically written for le-blanc-jasmin, for her review of _Shell Left Broken_ and request to hear more of the scandal between Hermione and the twins.

I tried to make the twins more even. Rowling gives Fred more lines and face time than George, which I find unfair to both the Weasley twins and to the Phelps. And because I like George better, he is the more appealing twin in Hermione's eyes, as well.

Neville may be a bit of a drama queen, but bear with him. He's one of the more difficult people to write, I've found, because he lacks so much definition as a character. Thank you, JK Rowling.

* *

I had always fancied the Weasley twins. Even when I ignored Ron, I would have liked to spend time with the twins. I don't suppose many people realize that there is more to them than the fiendish pranksters they made themselves out to be. Beyond the fools are two very brilliant minds and sensitive individuals. They simply chose not to let that side reign around the rest of the world.

It was the late fall of my fifth year that I first saw the intelligence of the twins. A typical visit to Hogsmeade had left me behind; I had once again taken on more than I should have academically and was laden with assignments for various professors. I also had it in my mind to outreach even my own standards and prepare as much extra credit as was possible. I had settled myself down at an empty table in a deserted corner of the library early in the day, just after everyone had left for the train, and had finished over half of my required assignments by lunch. Early afternoon, however, I was tired of the dusty books and leaking quills. 

I sought refuge from homework in the empty corridors of the school. I've never been one to wander aimlessly, but that day, I suppose, it was fated that I visited the walkway at the northern wall of the castle. From there I could look out over the lake, where birds dove and sunlight sparkled over the swells in the water. 

I must have been there a long while, because next moment I was realizing that the sun was sinking below the hills to the west and the wind was growing quite chilly. I started back for the library to collect my books, but was interrupted by the grating of stone and nearly identical voices speaking in hushed whispers behind me.

"D'you suppose we should turn her in to McGonagall, Fred?"

"I dunno, George, we might get in trouble for being up here, too, y'know. Maybe we should just let her off with a warning instead."

"Right. Then we can walk her back to the Great Hall for supper, eh?"

"Brilliant, George, I like your thinking! Step lightly, now, don't frighten her when we make ourselves known . . . "

They appeared on either side of me, strolling casually along as though they had every right to be escorting me back inside, as though I hadn't heard them approach. They were a full head taller than I, wearing identical robes and red-and-gold scarves. The only way I could have told them apart was that the one on my right was wearing a green sweater and the one of my left was wearing blue.

"Good afternoon, boys," I said, and they seemed surprised that I should have spoken before being spoken to. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

"For a stroll, yes," said the twin in blue without skipping a beat, "I suppose it is." 

Green caught on soon enough, and added, "Though a bit nippy, what?" He drew a bit closer, and I felt my face grow warm with a blush.

"Say, Hermione," said Blue, "What is a lovely girl like you doing out here all alone on a Hogsmeade day? Shouldn't you be out buying Butterbeers and Chocolate Frogs with Harry and Ron?"

"I had homework," I told them, discovering more ways to tell the two apart. Blue had a longer face than Green, and his voice was a bit stronger. "I spent the whole morning buried in books, but I hadn't intended on staying out here for as long as I did."

"We know," Green piped up solemnly. "We've been here all afternoon as well. Though we -- "

" -- We've been evading McGonagall and Snape more than homework -- "

" -- But little matter, we're all here at the same time, anyway -- "

" -- Would you like to have supper with us?" 

Supper was intriguing, but the nagging of homework left undone and possible extra credit was enough to hold me back. I refused the offer politely, trying to ignore the wounded looks they cast at one another over my head.

"The least we could do is to walk you back down to the library, then," Blue suggested brightly, but the cheer in his words was manufactured and half-hearted. 

"That would be lovely. Thank you, Fred." Blue beamed that I had identified him correctly, and I then turned to Green. "Thank you, George." He glowed equally bright, blushing slightly, and I shivered with delight as his hand found mine in the sleeve of my robe.

That evening, after the twins had escorted me to my secluded table in the library, they brought me a plateful of supper after taking their own meal. They dawdled there a moment, asking several questions from their Latin and Transfiguration classes, and left with extended goodbyes and lingering glances as they made their way past the bookshelves and out the great doors.

It was all very sweet and very sudden, and I was pleased with the attention. The thought that two boys so alike interested in me was one that remained in my mind. If forced to make a choice, which would I choose? Would I have to turn both down? The idea seemed ridiculous and distracting, and I had trouble finishing my extra credit projects before the library doors were closed for the night.

Upon arriving in the common room, I was bombarded with tales of the day trip. Both Harry and Ron, with many others -- the kids I tutored and attended various classes with -- sat me down and regaled me with humorous stories and anecdotes. I was hardly paying attention to them all; I took my cues and laughed with the rest, shared sympathetic cooing, and nodded as though it all mattered to me; but in fact my mind was fixed on the twins.

I continued the interested facade until close to midnight, when the girls in my dormitory finally settled into bed. Physically I was exhausted, but mentally I was alive and awake and thinking. I lay under the covers for what seemed like ages, staring at the dark curtains of my bed, until the now-familiar grating of stone came softly from the bathroom. I sat up in my blankets, watching the unmoving curtains around the bed, my ears pricked and waiting for the next sound. No voices I heard, but the subtle swishing of robes and padding of sock-covered feet crossing the room I did.

The curtain was pulled aside slowly, and grinning twin faces appeared at the division. They beckoned with their fingers, and I followed them back into the bathroom and through a small door in the floor beside the toilet. We then made our way through the inky blackness of a low tunnel until reaching a small sliver of light; we emerged behind a tapestry in an empty classroom. 

"Have you ever been out of your bed after hours, 'Mione?" Fred asked, hopping onto the large front desk in the room. George had seated himself on one of the student desks facing his brother, and I was left standing a few feet away. I watched them both as their eyes never left me.

"No," I admitted, finally taking a seat on the desk next to George. My feet didn't touch the ground and were left dangling like a small child's, while Fred's kept him seated on the edge of the professor's desk and George's long legs were folded, his knees sticking out on either side. They glanced at one another knowingly.

"Well," George said after a long moment. "You have a lot to learn."

And learn a lot I did. Eventually it became a nightly event to slip from my bed after midnight and wander the corridors with Fred and George. I learned how to listen for ghosts -- especially Peeves -- evade Filch and Mrs Norris, avoid being seen by paintings, and cast spells to muffle the grating of the stairs as they changed beneath me. I was shown so many secret passages and tunnels that I've long since forgotten most of them, and I knew the castle better than I now know my own home.

The morning after my first journey out of the dormitory after hours, I returned as the sun, shrouded in mist, rose over the horizon. I was not tired in the least and managed somehow to remain alert for all of my classes. I sat beside George and facing Fred at breakfast, a trick to not be noticed by either Harry or Ron or anyone else at the Gryffindor table, and again at lunch and supper as well.

When the mail came that day, I received an owl from George. It was that day that I discovered that George was a poet. He wrote me all sorts of sonnets and couplets and even an epic poem once, all of which I still have to this very day. He also sketched me little pictures in the margins, some so detailed it would not have surprised me if they had leapt from the page and joined Hagrid's band of beasts. He always said the right thing and knew when to say nothing.

Fred surprised me in a different way; he was not as talented with words as his twin, but just as sensitive. He took me to the most beautiful places in the castle, showed me stained glass windows and delicate statues and intricate paintings. He conjured my favorite sweets, took me on picnics, and took my side in arguments whether he agreed or not.

After the first night, I was never with both of them at the same time save for meals. They seemed to have worked out a schedule to ensure they both spent equal amounts of time with me. I had been initially worried about what others might have thought and being caught out of our dormitories after hours, but soon forgot to worry. In their own ways they eased my worries without mentioning any of it.

It was Neville who was first to catch us. It was close to Christmas; I had been in the library all evening researching something for Potions when George had surprised me with a new poem, and he followed me along the bookshelves as I looked up plants and the like in numerous books. Eventually he was walking alongside me, his fingers intertwined with mine as I perused the shelves. He would lean close, whisper a few words into my ear and lay a lingering kiss on my cheek, then stay behind a step as I moved along, studying titles and molding covers. As I turned to return a kiss, I caught sight of Neville at the end of the row, his eyes wide and mouth hanging open in surprise. I dropped George's hand in shock, who turned to face the interrupting boy with a bemused expression.

Neville took off like a leaf in the wind before I had the chance to say anything, and George insisted that he wouldn't breathe a word to anyone, that Longbottom was a trustworthy kid who wouldn't tell a soul.

" 'Mione," he murmured into my ear, his hand having found mine again. "You said yourself that you would practically trust Neville with your life. It's all safe; it's nothing to be worried about." He smiled, pressing his forehead to mine. "Now, find your book again before I feed Snape a pile of lies about your cheating on your next Potions exam."

I shut up about it and continued looking for books. But George had been wrong in his reassurances, because it wasn't long before Neville had told someone -- possibly one of the worst people he could have. He told Ginny Weasley, and before I found that she knew, half of the girls' dormitories knew of George and I. Naturally, because George is rarely seen without Fred, all three of us were quickly the front of everyone's gossip, and rumors began to fly. Neville seemed sorry enough after hearing one rumor which included himself, so I wasn't too angry with him.

Even after the rumors had slowly come to a stand-still it was difficult to keep ourselves much of a secret. Especially with my visits to the Burrow during summer holidays, when the space we had to work with was drastically minimized and the people we were around were far more inquisitive of one another than much of the population at Hogwarts, we had to be careful. Midnight rendezvous became few and far between, and what infrequent visits we entertained were afternoons hidden in the weed-ridden gardens or nettle-filled wood nearby. Very few and far between were the times when the Burrow was empty but for the three of us, and these were the most precious of times.

Goodbyes at Platform 9 3/4 were most difficult at the commencement of summer holidays. We were forced to say goodbye on the train before it came into station, and out of the compartment we could only cast long and wistful gazes at one another.

Owls were sent in great numbers when I was not visiting the Burrow, and my parents often commented and teased me about having a sweet-heart somewhere, but I kept my peace. I would not indulge them with the truth of the matter, nor would I cease sending owls when they intercepted one of George's poems. I allowed them to keep their fantasies of my sweet-heart by not telling them anything. If my mum found out I was keeping up appearances with _two_ boys, let alone _twins_, she would go simply mental, and my dad -- Well, his reaction would be much more violent than my mum's. 

At the end of the twin's seventh year, we ignored the fact that they would both be leaving while I remained at Hogwarts. We never formally ended things, but by the time I returned to school at the start of term, the owls had grown exceedingly scarce. If at all possible, I threw myself even further into my schoolwork to distract my mind from thoughts of Fred and George, becoming entirely antisocial and introverted. When questioned by Harry and Ron, I made up excuses or changed the subject. I never returned to the Burrow, despite Molly and Ginny Weasley's plethora of invitations and pleas. I simply did not want to see the twins after so long a time had passed.

*

Hermione had managed to make it thus far with dry eyes, and as she paused she cast wary glances to Ron and Harry. Malfoy seemed almost too intrigued by her tale, though he had not been mentioned. After a long silence, the blond man looked around at the others, then back to Hermione with an imploring expression.

"Where does Longbottom join the picture? I was sure you two -- "

"I have an entire year at Hogwarts left to tell, Malfoy," she cut him off abruptly. He smiled warmly.

"Of course. The seventh year." He gestured fluidly with one hand, his other hidden within his robes. "Do continue, Miss Granger."

She glanced at Potter and Ron before speaking again. They stared down at their hands clasped in their laps. She drew in a deep breath, looked to Malfoy, the floor, and the fire, and continued with her story.

*

I had turned to my text books and assignments to sooth the ache of my heart. It was Christmas when Neville arrived in the picture; I had stayed at school to avoid my parents' worries and to continue my head-start with the new term. The ability to return to the many secret places in the castle also kept me at school for the holidays, for as long as I stayed within the stone walls I visited the tiny tower on the west side of the castle where Fred took me for picnics and the tiny room above the library where George had read me his poetry so very often. 

Neville remained at school that Christmas for the soul purpose of keeping an eye on me. He was worried, he said, that I could be so consumed with my books and learning. He sat with me every morning at breakfast, noon at lunch, evening at supper. He was by my side in the library and common room, never ceasing to oblige my wishes and keep perfectly silent while I poured over texts and notes and parchments. However, when I asked him to leave, he politely refused and continued to keep watch over me.

One day, after Christmas but before the New Year, he sat beside me as I researched a family of plants for Herbology. His round eyes never left my figure as I read and copied notes in the margin, and after a very long while, he spoke.

"Hermione," he said, "I worry about you, you know. You never speak to anyone but your professors and Harry and Ron and me. You don't even speak to Ginny Weasley anymore." His brow furrowed slightly. "You and Ginny used to be nearly inseparable."

"Times change, Neville," I told him flatly, pausing from my work. "People usually change with them."

"Well you've certainly changed for the worse," he said indignantly. I glanced up sharply, and his eyes went even wider as he tried to amend the situation with a hasty explanation. "I only mean that you've never been so preoccupied with assignments that you would turn down Hogsmeade every single time we're allowed to go. And you've never been so busy that you would miss a Quidditch match, but this year you've not been to a single one." His hand covered mine, and I noticed for the first time that he was trembling. "You're not the same, Hermione. Is it something to do with the twins -- the Weasleys? You can tell me, you know." His forehead knitted with worry. "You can trust me, 'Mione. You can -- "

"Don't call me that," I hissed dangerously, taking my hand back. I leaned close and said, "If you call me that one more time I will personally see to it that you die a very long and very painful death."

"This isn't you!" he exploded, knocking his chair over in his haste to be on his feet. "You don't threaten people, Hermione! You don't -- "

"What do you know about me? Nothing! You don't know a thing about me, or my family, or my friends or the twins or -- "

"_LISTEN TO ME,_" he yelped. Hot tears were gathering in his eyes, and I shut up quickly. "Listen to me." He drew himself away slightly as he continued. "I know that I'm not as close to you as Ron or Harry, but I do believe that I should have the chance to be." He paused, lip quivering and hands shaking as they clenched at his sides. "But if you don't want to tell me anything I understand."

I was speechless for the third time in my life. The first had been when Snape had walked into the conversation Harry, Ron, and I had been having our first year when we thought he had been after the Sorcerers' Stone; the second had been the first time Fred had ever kissed me. But this was a new sort of speechless -- this was a rattling sort. I felt cold and a bit shaken that timid little Neville would be so harshly honest with me.

He turned to go to his dormitory, but stopped when I spoke.

"Neville, I -- " He looked at me with his large brown eyes and I said, "I'm sorry."

After that Neville and I became practically inseparable. From our close friendship came a romance, more dull than that which I had experience with the twins but better in the fact that I knew that Neville would always be there when I needed him. He was secure and dependable. After graduating from Hogwarts at the top of our class, I accepted a job at the _Daily Prophet_, where I served as a headlining writer and detective. Neville worked for the Ministry in a dependable and predictable department.

He proposed in January two years later. I accepted not because I loved him, though I did in a way quite unlike the passionate way I very nearly loved the twins, but because I knew he would always make a good husband and father. He would be there with his secure, dependable job and would support a family quite nicely without any unpredictabilities. 

We had our first son as our one-year anniversary arrived. We named him Ryce, and he had round brown eyes and thick curls of sandy-brown hair. Neville was the responsible, dependable, and, naturally, boring father I had expected him to be. He was there for Ryce's first steps, first words, and first (carefully monitored) spells.

Several peaceful years later, we began to want another child. It was July, and unexpectedly warm and humid. I was on assignment for the _Prophet_ in a small, secluded village just south of Paris where the Quidditch World Cup was being held -- Australia against France -- when I saw the twins again. It had been five years since I had seen them last, but in that first moment it had not felt like a day had passed, as cliched as that sounds.

Fred and George both worked for the Ministry at the time, and had gotten their hands on free tickets to the Cup. As fate would have it (and I'd not believed in fate since third-year Divination with that quack of a professor Trelawney), we were sitting in the same box -- in the same row and three consecutive seats. Somehow in the melee of the game I found myself sitting between them, and George's hand found the small of my back behind my seat while Fred's fingers slipped through mine during a tense play in the game.

The twins had only grown more handsome with time; the both of them were very tall and slightly more broad about the shoulders than I had remembered them. Both said that I had become more beautiful if that was at all possible, and soon I had forgotten that Neville and Ryce were even an issue; I was a fifth-year at Hogwarts again.

The game lasted only a few short hours, until Australia emerged victorious with not only a pleasant amount of goals scored but also the Snitch caught by their Seeker. Fred knew one of the players, a Chaser, and I was taken down to meet the team, lead by Fred and followed by George. The two of them were greeted numerous times by faces I had never seen before. I met the team from Down Under, received the autographed game Quaffle, and was invited to several post-game victory parties, but declined politely. I had work to do, for the _Prophet _was a harsh mistress.

As we left the Australian team tent, Fred went on ahead in the crowd, and George asked me to dinner. This invitation I accepted; it would have killed me to turn him down. Instead of going into Paris to a cafe, he cooked the meal himself in his tent. Fred, he told me, had gone to one of the Australian parties I had turned down.

George and I danced in the moonlight that night. We shared an exquisite supper, candlelight, and a discussion about the way life had been before we had parted ways. I was quite unsurprised when the evening ended with me in his arms.

*

Malfoy's pale eyes were glued to Hermione's face. She had once again paused, leaving the room shrouded in silence. 

"We eagerly await the next installment of your little story, my dear," he said firmly. She nodded hesitantly, and glanced around at the other two men before continuing.

"A few weeks later I arrived home to Neville," she said softly, "without word from the twins since. It was several more months before my second son, Wesley, was born." The hard gaze from Malfoy forced her to add, even more softly still, "He has grey eyes and -- and red hair." Ron glanced up in surprise; Harry, too, seemed startled, but did not lift his gaze from the floor.

"I see," said Malfoy with little compassion. "Indeed -- I see." Hermione buried her face in her hands, but out of what emotion none of the others could place. "And little Wesley is eleven this year?"

"Yes," Hermione croaked after a delay. "A first year at Hogwarts."

"Oh," Malfoy said, blinking across at Potter. "You have him as a student, then?"

His question was met with a stony gaze before the words were spoken; "As I had Ryce before him, yes. They're quite bright kids, Hermione."

"Thank you," she whispered. She took in a sharp breath and said to the blond man, "Malfoy, my story is finished. What say you now?"

Malfoy got to his feet smoothly, his robes hanging on his shoulders as though he was born with them in place. "I believe, Miss Granger," he announced silkily, "that it is time we sleep.

"Tomorrow morning I will leave for you to do with as you please, and we shall resume this bit of reconciliation after breakfast. Now," he clapped his hands once and three house-elves appeared in the doorway, "You will be escorted to your respective rooms. If you have any concerns with your suites, please do not hesitate to tell me, and whatever you find inadequate shall be fixed immediately."

* *


	3. The Frequently Unseen Side of Harry Pott...

Chapter Three: The Frequently Unseen Side of Harry Potter

* *

Notes: If it isn't obvious already, I don't like Harry. He's a stupid little boy. So this part may be a bit rough around the edges, if you will. Mainly this was an excuse for slash and Oliver Wood, another neglected character. 

Once again, I thank JK Rowling -- For giving the best characters crappy parts.

* *

The morning shone, clear and bright, through the curiously wide windows of the suite given to Ron. It had been decorated in shades of red: red silk sheets on the bed; soft, red down pillows and a thick, red down blanket; red velvet curtains with gold trim; red marble floors swirled with grey; and a red hue added magically to the flames of the candelabras and sconces along the walls. Laid out on the bed for him the previous evening had been red silk pajamas, his initials sewn onto the pocket in shining gold, and resting on the floor at the foot of the bed had been a pair of heavy red slippers.

But now, as he changed into a set of robes laid over the back of a red armchair for him to wear this morning (also trimmed with red silk at the hems of sleeves and pockets and hood), his mind was running the details of the tale he had been told last night smooth in his mind. He and Hermione had never been close, though numerous people had predicted that they would eventually end up together in a romantic relationship, and he was unsure of how to feel towards her after hearing about her history with his brothers. Fred and George had never allowed him to be close to them, and now, for once in his life, he did not wish to be.

He left the silk pajamas on the bed after smoothing the blankets back over the mattress and slipped into his shoes in his usual morning routine. Though in a new environment, Ron needed to continue his morning routine as perfectly as ever, and he combed his hair and brushed his teeth and washed his face in the much too large bathroom adjacent to the monstrously roomy bedroom, which was also decorated in red. He wondered what colors Harry and Hermione found themselves in now.

After he felt clean enough, Ron made his way down a fat staircase and into the dining room, where an unbelievable spread lay out on the table. Malfoy was already seated at the head of the table, and Harry sat nearby, his piercing green eyes watching the blond man warily. Ron took a seat across from Harry and took the opportunity to tuck in properly, enjoying the food thoroughly until Hermione came into the room. She was very calm and quite content as she helped herself to a small breakfast and a glass of orange juice. There seemed to be a circle of gazes as Potter's eyes never left Malfoy, Malfoy watched Hermione without blinking, Ron found himself studying Malfoy, and Hermione's sporadic glances found Harry's visage and no one else's.

Once the trio of guests had finished eating, Malfoy said in a startling and gentle tone, "I believe that we should move to the study, where we can continue our reconciliation. If I am not mistaken, Miss Granger has finished her tale," Hermione nodded, "and we can move on to hear what Mr Potter has to say." Potter glared daggers, but did not object. Ron merely followed in silence as Malfoy swept out of the dining room and into the study.

They found the seats they had chosen the previous evening, and as soon as they were comfortable, Potter did not need to be coaxed to tell his story. In a challenging sort of way, he looked at Malfoy, who grinned in response, and began to speak.

*

The kiss changed my reality. As a third-year, I was the Seeker for the Gryffindor house team, as I had been my first and second years. The difference, however, was that during my third year Gryffindor house won the Quidditch Cup. 

The game had been amazing, and my final grabbing of the Snitch out of Malfoy's very hand was my most memorable achievement in all my years at Hogwarts to date. But it was after I had ended the game, after I had caught the Snitch, that I was given my first kiss.

I went numb after the crowd erupted, the Snitch still trying to evade my fingers from within my fist, and Oliver Wood was the first of the team to lunge himself at me. He was crying -- Quidditch meant that much to him, so I'm happy he went on to be a professional player -- and he didn't seem to care that the entire population of the school was watching. The twins joined the hug, and then the girls on the team, and then the rest of the Gryffindor house; Wood was kissing all of the girls and laughing and crying. At first I had thought it had been a mistake, that in his distracted state he had made an error, but there was something in his eyes as his lips grazed mine which told me that it had been most definitely intentional.

We were all swept onto the shoulders of the Gryffindors, professors and students alike shouting and raving and celebrating. If faced with the challenge, I could have shown the Dementors a Patronus Lupin could have been proud of -- but it would not have been the Cup or even the feeling of the Snitch fighting my fingers, its wings digging into the palm of my hand. My Patronus that day would have been Wood's mouth pressed against my own.

I was afraid to mention it. I didn't tell Ron or Hermione, to whom I told everything under normal conditions. I didn't dare breathe a word around Wood himself, who was his usual, Quidditch-crazed self for the rest of the year, though I'm still not sure if it was my imagination or not that his liquid brown eyes found mine while he spoke to (supposedly) the entire team. I didn't tell Dumbledore or Lupin or even Sirius, who I probably could have confided in above any of the lot of them. Sirius would have understood.

The first person to speak of it was more of a surprise to me than anything else that had ever happened in my lifetime. It was weeks before I even spoke to myself about it, even months -- the autumn of my fourth year, in fact. While Hermione had herded Ron into the library to help promote her enterprise of S.P.E.W., I had slipped out of the way and gone to the Great Hall to see if there was something I could do to waste time without having to listen to them bicker tirelessly. I found the Weasley twins and Lee Jordan, plotting as usual; several Hufflepuff girls gossiping; Draco Malfoy seated at the shadowed end of a table, alone; and Cho Chang with two of her friends from the Ravenclaw house.

The twins and Jordan were not to be disturbed, as I had learned earlier in the year, or I would be paying with pranks from their aborted effort at a joke shop for months. The Hufflepuffs were also out of the question, because I didn't know any of them. With my luck they would have been of Colin Creevey's persuasion and thrown themselves at me for autographs and pictures and the like. This left the obvious, Chang -- or Malfoy. Chang has always been a very pretty girl, and still is, and a wicked Seeker. But as I approached, she turned her back further on me, and I realized with a grim sense of reality that I had absolutely no place beside her.

I faced Malfoy, who seemed to be put out about something. He was without either of his bodyguards, Crabbe and Goyle, and was gazing at a small storm cloud he had conjured a few inches above the table. I took a seat several feet from where he sat, on the opposite side of the table, and watched as he transformed the raining cloud into a pale grey snow cloud. Soon he had a pile of snow in front of him, which he carefully formed into a perfect sphere with his fingertips. Glancing around furtively, he took it up and threw it into the midst of the Hufflepuff girls, hitting one square in her nose. Malfoy smirked contentedly before noticing that I had been watching him with a subdued interest.

"What do you want, Potter?" The contempt in his voice was manufactured and tired and did not hold the confidence it often did. He appeared a bit perplexed that I would be without Ron and Hermione.

I shrugged in response, and he eyed me warily, allowing the small cloud to fizzle away in a miniature bolt of lightening.

"Where are Weasel and Mudblood, then?"

"Where are your goons Crabbe and Goyle?" I parroted, ignoring the derogatory nicknames he had for my best friends. He raised an eyebrow but left the subject alone, laying his wand on the scratched tabletop absently; his eyes were fixed on me while I allowed my gaze to wander around the room and bewitched ceiling.

"What's the matter with you, eh?" I blinked across at him as he moved down the few seats to be directly facing me. "You aren't here with your friends. You choose to sit here, but don't mock me in any way. Supper's not for two good hours, Potter, what good is it to be here now?"

"I was bored." He had been ticking off the facts he had collected on his fingers as he grew more and more exasperated with me, and now he seemed completely perturbed. Apparently I was not answering his questions in the manner he had been expecting me to. "Look, what do you want me to say? That I came down here just to bother you, Malfoy, just to see how I could further make an enemy out of you?" It was his turn, now, to blink at me.

"No," he said slowly. "No, I don't want you to say that." He glanced around the room, seemed satisfied that no one was paying the least bit of attention to us, and leaned closer. "I saw what happened after Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup last spring." My eyes widened, but I didn't say a word. Perhaps he was speaking of a different moment in time. I pinched myself inwardly; it was just an excuse I could feed myself for the sake of my sanity. "Have you been writing to Wood, Potter? Do you miss him very much?"

This was exactly the situation I had been wanting to avoid. There was a venom in Malfoy's voice that made me practically boil with anger and flood with tears simultaneously. The possibility of leaving flickered through my mind, but I decided against it with the logic that leaving would give him more truth than he deserved at the moment.

"He was a great Quidditch player," I said shortly. Malfoy seemed disappointed, as though he were doubting himself with the answer I gave.

"Yes," he murmured, his pale eyes narrowing slightly in bemusement, "Yes, he was . . . Quidditch suited him . . . "

"What were you implying, Malfoy?" He waved it off with his hand.

"Nothing, Potter, nothing. Never mind." Clearing his throat, he made as if to sweep off and out of the room, but only made it to his feet. Accusingly, he said, "I saw him kiss you, Harry. I know I did not make it up. But if you want to pretend that it never happened, then be my guest." And he left.

I waited not a full minute before scrambling after him. If Malfoy had seen the kiss, who else had? And would they, too, come forward and say something? I needed answers. I bolted after Malfoy, catching a glimpse of his robes as he disappeared around a corner. I followed. Turning the corner for myself, I was pulled against the wall and pinned there securely, my head banging into the rough stone with a hollow sound.

"Ouch," I groaned, and a long string of swears slipped from my mouth before I could stop them. It was then that I realized that it was Malfoy holding me to the walls, and the expression on his face was one I couldn't read easily. "Um, Malfoy, I -- "

"Potter, I hold information that you don't want leaking into the public," he breathed, his pale eyes searing into my own. "Promise me you'll do as I say, and it won't become tomorrow's hot gossip with the Hufflepuff girls. Promise?" I barely had time to nod before the wall gave way to reveal a dimly lit passage which ran along the corridor and followed the shape of the Great Hall, ending with a small chamber behind a painting on the main staircase.

Before I could realize what was happening, I found myself backed up against another wall, a smoother stone wall, with Malfoy and his lips pressed up against me. He was nervous, I could feel it in the tremble of his bottom lip as it was barely lifted from my own and the clumsiness of his hand as it nestled into my robes at the curve of my waist. Such a graceful person as Malfoy was not this discombobulated without reason, but I would be one to say that putting himself in a situation as risky as this could be considered a viable reason.

When he pulled away, remaining close, he had tears in his eyes which he blinked away before I had a second glimpse of them. His hand dropped to his side, and he ran his tongue along his lips in what seemed like a final effort to preserve the moment before it crashed in around him.

I opened my mouth to speak, he braced himself, and I whispered, "I promise."

After that day, my free hours were filled with moments of Malfoy. At first I told myself time and again that it was only a matter of keeping Wood's kiss out of reach of the rumor mill and gossiping girls, but eventually I couldn't continue the charade in my mind.

I had fallen for Draco Malfoy.

It hurt to see him continue to challenge Ron and Hermione, but without blowing our cover I could say nothing to stop it. I stood idly by and watched Ron turned scarlet at mention of his financial troubles, Hermione blush pink when her ancestry was brought up time and again. But despite the continuation of his torturing my friends, I noticed that he was no longer flanked by Crabbe and Goyle at every waking moment. They hung around to see the show of Weasel and Mudblood, sat with him at mealtime and in class, but otherwise they seemed to have become nonexistent in Malfoy's world.

He often sent me notes via owl telling me where we were to meet any given night or day, and when pressed, I wrote them off as letters from Sirius, Lupin, and various others. Several times I claimed Colin was sending fan mail, others I said were messages from Dumbledore or McGonagall. Lying to Ron and Hermione was difficult at first, but as time went on it became more and more simple. It was routine, suddenly, to receive an owl, open the envelope or unroll the parchment, and write it off as a letter from the first name which came to mind. Once, in my rush for an excuse, I said that one owl was from Wood; when my gaze caught that of Malfoy, I felt terrible. He blushed, angry and embarrassed, and avoided my gaze after that.

We kept up appearances in secret through Christmas of fifth year. Hermione was scarce during free hours, researching in the library, leaving Ron and I to putter through the corridors and find things to do. Had Hermione been unoccupied, I would have sent her and Ron off somewhere to give myself more time with Malfoy. Instead I satisfied myself with running errands for Dumbledore which entailed detours past the Great Hall, where Malfoy was spending more of his time once the weather grew cold and the snow fell deeper. We would talk for a moment, then slip off to the nearest empty passage through the walls, where we would lose ourselves until the time came that I would have to leave, or Ron would have become suspicious.

I was in love with life, with the freedoms fifth year brought, with Malfoy. I had even learned to deal with the loathing from Snape, which seemed to have been lifted slightly. Perhaps Malfoy had spoken to him, but I think that it was more likely that it was all in my head.

I was happy, but like all things in life which make us happy, it was not fated to last. Fifth year ended, and Malfoy promised to write me as I promised to write him. However, between Draco's Nazi of a father, Lucius, and my uncle Vernon, owls became difficult to keep up, and soon they faded. Vernon intercepted several before I admitted to anything, but I suppose that Lucius was more trouble for Malfoy, because I only heard of one letter finding itself in the father's hands before they were discontinued.

When sixth year began, I was apprehensive about seeing Malfoy again. On the train, I chose a seat in the middle of the car, and Ron soon found me and sat in the compartment I'd chosen. However, even as Hermione and Neville found us, I made sure that the compartment next to us was empty, while the other contained the Weasley twins and Lee Jordan.

Malfoy never showed up.

The next time I saw him was during the sorting of the first-years. He refused to meet my gaze across the room, and I was irked and brooding by the end of the evening. I made a vow to myself that I would take him aside after the feast and ceremony to get to the bottom of it all. I, however, did not get the opportunity, because I was swept off by McGonagall to be offered the position of Quidditch captain for the year. Taking Wood's old job was, indeed, very impressive, but I had to turn it down. I didn't want to do the same to an unsuspecting third-year as he did to me.

In fact, I didn't have the chance to take Malfoy aside until the next day before lunch. I was walking with Ron and Hermione to the Great Hall when I heard the voice behind me. Cold and silver, it haunted me until I slipped out of the conversation with my friends and ducked into a side corridor until Malfoy passed and I pulled him in after me.

"Malfoy," I breathed into his ear from his back, holding his arms behind him. He squirmed at first, not willing to speak, but eventually gave in with a reluctant sigh.

"Potter, I -- "

"Why didn't you tell me when your father forbid you from sending more owls? Surely it would not have hurt you to sneak one last message?" I heard my voice; it sounded pinched and painful. I tried to remind myself that he had not meant to hurt me.

"I tried," he said softly. "He had the house-elves oversee the owls that left the house -- there was nothing I could have done. The elves don't listen to me, only my father. They've never listened to me. My father's trained them not to." I let him go but watched to make sure he didn't try to flee before I had the chance to talk.

"I missed you, Draco." A pained look came over his face, and he shook his head at me.

"Don't," he whispered. "Father has spies ... He's hired house-elves and other Slytherin students and maybe even Snape. He'll send me to -- " He winced. "To You-Know-Who if you keep this up. He's watching you, Harry. He's watching the both of us. It's not worth it."

Several hesitant moments, two long and heavy sighs, and one extended, wistful gaze later, I leaned close to kiss him one last time. He accepted at first eagerly, then seemed to remember all he had just told me, and broke away, shame creeping into his eyes.

"I'll not forget you," I said hopefully. He turned his back, straightened his robes.

"No one will hear of this, nor will they hear of Wood. I expect you'll do the same curtesy for me."

I watched him leave with dry eyes. Despite the urges from nearly the entire Gryffindor table, I didn't eat, either. I was numb. I was angry and hurt and empty. I was alone again. And he hadn't even said goodbye. He hadn't even seemed remorseful. He hadn't even seemed to care.

*

Potter had broken off, and stared intently into the flames of the grand fire roaring in the grate. Malfoy's harsh glare had softened, his malevolent demeanor had faded slightly. Hermione glared daggers at the blond man now, and she glanced at Potter and Ron.

"Do continue, Harry," she said, mocking Malfoy. He glanced up sharply at her, his pale eyes moist with what appeared to be tears. "We all want to know how this tale ends." Malfoy scowled, and Potter thanked Hermione with his eyes.

"There is more, you know," he said, more to Malfoy than to anyone. "There's almost two years I've yet to tell. Would you like me to continue?" Malfoy nodded, eager to hear more but apprehensive as to what the man might say next.

"Go on, Harry," Ron said, breaking his solemn silence with few encouraging words.

"All right," Harry Potter said, and his story continued without a hitch.

*

Malfoy and I avoided each other for several months to follow. And then, one day, it seemed that he had forgotten I existed. All of sixth year we ignored one another, and I even began to forget what good I saw in him altogether.

One day, early in my seventh year, I saw him sitting at the Gryffindor table with Ginny Weasley during breakfast, and I was shocked. Ginny Weasley was the last person I expected to be sitting with a Malfoy, but to see him at our table was enough to make me lose my appetite completely. I was outraged.

I approached Ginny one evening in the common room. "Ginny," I said, not unkindly, "what do you and Malfoy find to talk about?" She blinked at me with a blank look.

"His name is Draco," she said flatly, getting to her feet. "If you think it's your business you should know to call him by his right name." And she disappeared into her dormitory.

Hermione was gone most of the time now, so I could not ask her to find information for me. Ron would not care enough to find anything of use for me, nor did I want to have to explain the situation if he asked. Ginny wasn't speaking to me presently, because I could not bring myself to refer to Malfoy by his 'proper' name -- I had always called him Malfoy, even when we were together. It appeared as though I had no one to turn to for an explanation. But an opportunity presented itself when I wasn't looking, and I seized it with great interest.

Colin Creevey was once again seeking autographs and photographs, but so was his younger brother Dennis. Dennis, a very small boy, came tottering after me, babbling with his brother, and would not let up. The idea struck me to have him find the information I needed, and he obliged completely without needing to be asked twice. I sent him to ask Ginny, and even Malfoy himself, and Creevey came back to me several days later with notes scrawled on odd bits of parchment.

"Ginny told me," he relayed, handing me the bits of parchment in a large envelope, "that she and Mr Malfoy have much in common and are quite content to sit and talk about anything which comes to mind. She also told me to tell you that she knew that I was spying for you and you should just give it up." I swore, but urged the boy to continue with his report. "Malfoy said that it was none of my business, but that if anything happened we'd all surely hear about it quite quickly. Something about Hufflepuff girls who like to gossip."

It was all I needed to hear. I sent the kid on his way after signing a picture of the both of us I'd allowed him to take after four years of his brother chasing me through the corridors trying sneak photographs with the irritating encouragement of the former Professor Lockhart.

Eventually I let it alone, but by that time, Ginny Weasley had turned him away. She had found a new boy to fill her time, and Malfoy had returned to the Slytherin table at meals while his old seat at Gryffindor's table was filled with a new face I didn't bother to meet. I was still obsessed with finding out the truth behind Malfoy; I sensed that he hadn't told me the full truth of the matter.

Hermione was spending more and more of her time in the library. I rarely saw her unless I was in class, and even then she had her face buried in a book while her hand was raised high. Ron, too, had suddenly taken leave, disappearing at all odd hours of the night and between classes, and I was alone. I found myself traveling to Hogsmeade whenever I was left to my own devices in the free hourss of the afternoon or early evening once my homework had been completed. 

Seventh year came and went, fairly uneventful and quite miserable and lonely for me. Hermione, as well, seemed fully detached and antisocial save for her unexpected friendship with Neville. The only person in the whole of my limited circle of comrades to show any signs of happiness was Ron, but he wouldn't tell me a word of the reasoning behind it. Seeing him so blissful often made me more upset, because I had it in my mind that Ron was supposed to be the unhappy one. As terrible and mean as it sounds, I felt as though he was mocking me when he was in a good mood. Disgusted with myself, I managed to push everyone away but Hedwig. She made the perfect friend -- she never flaunted her moods or stronger friendships or talents.

After leaving Hogwarts, I took on a job at the Ministry, but found it dull and repetitive. During one of the many meals I shared with Dumbledore at the Leaky Cauldron, I mentioned how miserable I had been since I left Hogwarts; for as unhappy as my final years were at the school, it was my home and certainly not as bad as working under Percy Weasley. Dumbledore had been searching for a professor to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts and was as delighted to offer the job as I was to accept. Not only was I home, I was teaching with Hagrid, who was thrilled to have a friend who could influence the other professors when Dumbledore wasn't around to stand up for him.

As a professor, I now stand on level ground with Snape, who has backed off significantly, and enjoy watching for the children of friends I had as a student. As of now I have taught three Jordan kids, Ryce and Wesley, Dennis Creevey's son, and a daughter of Cho Chang -- as well as many others whose names were more memorable than the faces of their parents. Sometime I think it's better that way.

*

"Well," said Potter after a long and awkward silence. "That's my story." Malfoy was gazing intently at the highly polished wood floor, while Ron's grey gaze was fixed on Hermione's shoes. Hermione was the only person in the room to be looking at Harry, who blushed slightly upon this realization.

"It certainly explains a lot," she said quietly. "Why you don't get along -- you and Draco, I mean." She paused, looking wistfully at Malfoy, who shivered beneath his robes. "I know that _I _wouldn't -- "

"It was a touching story, Mr Potter," the blond man interrupted shortly, ignoring Hermione's murmurs of protest. "Indeed, a moving tale." He eyes moved to Ron, who appeared startled that he should be the center of attention now. But suddenly Malfoy was on his feet and very nearly out of the room when he announced, "It's time for lunch."

Hermione, Ron, and Harry exchanged glances before following.

* *


	4. The Simple Story of Ron Weasley

Chapter Four: The Simple Story of Ron Weasley

* *

Notes: I love Ron. My second favorite to write. Hopefully this follows all continuality ... and here is where the softer side of a bad boy Draco Malfoy rears its adorable little head, which means that this part is for le-blanc-jasmin. 

Also for Saralyn, with its high 'yumminess' factor. 

Um ... I don't think I can pin anything on Rowling this time around, unless I mention that just because Lucius Malfoy is an evil Death Eater does not make Malfoy evil as well. Therefore, I say thanks to JK for giving us the epitome of being biased against a family name.

* *

Lunch consisted of quiche and a plethora of different sorts of sandwiches. The dining room was silent as a tomb save for the echoing of silverware hitting delicate china dishes, and even the house-elves seemed to be acutely aware of the awkwardness of it all. Malfoy's silver gaze remained fixed on his food, while Hermione's eyes flickered from Ron to Potter and back again. Ron cleared his throat at intervals, and Potter ate very little but stirred his food with his fork with an absent interest.

Finally, Malfoy looked up long enough to see that the others had finished eating, and he slipped from his chair and onto his feet. Still avoiding eye contact, he waved a hand, indicating that the rest should follow, and left the room.

Instead of retiring to the study with its massive fireplace and elegantly carved chairs, Malfoy brought them into the sweeping lounge in which they had all met upon arriving. Hermione took the large armchair she had taken before and pulled her feet up, reclining somewhat in the oversized seat. Ron sunk into a nearby davenport, Potter also sat close. Malfoy, however, chose to sit in a dark loveseat on the opposite line of settees, glowering into the overstuffed pillows around him.

"Ron," Hermione said brightly, "would you like to tell your story now?" The redhead smiled somewhat grimly, glancing at Malfoy, and nodded to Hermione. She very nearly grinned, which made the blond man scowl even further.

"I'd like to tell you all that I have some sort of fantastic way of beginning this," Ron said, the solemn smile returning to his features, "but I don't." Malfoy smirked, and Ron blushed slightly, the smile fading. "So I'll just tell you what happened."

*

I don't think that I've ever been the center of attention -- not until the Cannons, I mean, and even then I wasn't technically a part of the team. At home I was always overshadowed by my brothers with their brilliantly good grades and prefect badges and statuses as head boy. I was even overshadowed by Ginny, who was pretty and popular. I've never been popular, and I wouldn't necessarily say I'm all that pretty. My grades were okay, and I was friends -- best friends -- with Harry Potter. But I was dwarfed by his achievements, as well, so that really wouldn't count as a spotlight for me, either.

One of the only things I can remember being the center of attention for -- well, two things, really -- were Wizard Chess and Draco Malfoy. Chess is an obvious; I've always been better than any of my brothers or Ginny or my parents, and I'd always been able to beat most of the Gryffindor house if they challenged me. Malfoy showered me with attention in the form of his taunting and teasing, which on occasion lead to physical fights, like at Quidditch matches during first year. But arguing was not one of my strong points because I wasn't exactly the most brilliant kid at Hogwarts, and it was difficult for me to come up with clever lines in the heat of an exchange.

And I never really thought much of finding a relationship at school, either. I guess I just expected to one day find a nice girl who was pretty and an avid fan of the Cannons and we'd end up married with kids. The Yule Ball fourth year was a nightmare, because I didn't take any of it seriously. Harry had to set me up with one of the Patil twins, and I was miserable all night because she actually wanted to dance and socialize and be seen as a part of a couple. I hope she was happy with those boys from Beauxbatons.

I suppose that even after that it never fully clicked in my mind that I held no real interest in girls. Not until -- Well, not until after those very few girls approached me first, and I just went along with it all because I was expected to. And after those relationships fell apart I was miserable, not because I was without a girlfriend, but because it never occurred to me that I could be happier with a boyfriend. So it never really clicked in my mind until I was approached, not by any girl, but by Malfoy.

The summer holidays before sixth year were dull for me, as my older three brothers were working and the twins spent much of their time out in the garden and woods. Hermione and Ginny spent much of their time together, or so I thought -- I found later that Hermione had been out with the twins while Ginny covered for her -- but I was alone in my room, rereading _Flying With the Cannons_ and watching my posters. It was the first summer in which Harry did not come to visit. Not that I minded, however, seeing how Harry really didn't want to be hanging about with just another Weasley, let alone the whole lot of us.

Quite to my surprise, I received an owl in the middle of August from Malfoy. Of course I didn't tell any of my brothers or father, who were thoroughly obsessed with the idea that all Malfoys were involved with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, or my mum or Ginny, who would go mental at the concept of my being utterly disinterested with girls even at sixteen. So after reading his owl, I replied after thinking it over.

His letter was very clear in its meaning, and I'm sure was meant to be so very blunt in his intentions. He told me that he had noticed since fourth year at the Yule Ball how very much I had ignored the entire gender of girls without so much as a second glance. He told me that he had been noticing since then how much I argued with Hermione especially and followed those few girls who had invited me into relationships with little enthusiasm. He saw that I was alone, and he wanted to do something about it. I was to reply within the week or forget it was ever brought up, and so I replied the very next night.

I had nearly forgotten I had sent that letter back until that impressive eagle-owl came swooping back through my window one evening as I admired my Cannons posters for yet another lonely afternoon. He seemed elated to know that I would accept his offer, and I was delighted to have found company in someone who, like me, was misunderstood, even if on a completely different level. We continually exchanged letters, in which he learned of my family and my own aspirations and I discovered the good in him, despite his tainted family name. As the first of September loomed closer, I began to worry that perhaps the school year would bring about the old side of Malfoy I was so very used to before this summer. 

I found Malfoy on the train right away, and it was as though we had always been friends -- or more, as we shared our first kiss before I spotted Harry coming onto the platform. We promised a meeting after supper in a corridor which was nearly always deserted. I suppose that I was so wrapped up in finally being happy in a relationship that I did not even notice the way Harry glanced past my shoulder at Draco continually throughout the meal in a very puzzled and forlorn sort of way. Hindsight now nips at my heels, obviously, now that I've heard why.

But after those first two days back at school, we managed to slip through the halls to find one another in a most cathartic way, in that I felt my old worries slipping away as they were replaced with a most euphoric state of bliss most of the time. I began to block out the negative aspects of life: Hermione's nagging (which soon was replaced with severe withdrawal), Harry's perfection in being himself, Snape's preference of the Slytherins and apparent loathing for all students from Gryffindor.

When Lucius Malfoy was found guilty of being a loyal Death Eater, he was sent to Azkaban, and Draco was without a father. Not much changed at his house, because his dad wasn't around much anyway, but his mum was distraught. She took over Lucius' job at the Ministry, leaving Draco alone even more than ever during holidays. At Christmas and Easter and the like, he stayed at school, but over the summer he was made to go home. That final summer holiday was torture without him. We sent owls, but it wasn't the same.

One day, early in the holiday, I was clearing the garden of gnomes with the twins. I turned back to find another gnome, and I saw a beautiful, sleek black cat sitting on the wall. Once the garden was gnome-free, the twins made a hasty exit, and I approached the cat. It sat quite still, watching me with pale blue eyes as its tail flickered slightly.

"Who are you?" I asked it, lowering myself to my knees to see it eye to eye. It continued to watch me, its expression unchanging. I stroked its ears. This cat was much different than Crookshanks, the striped wretch Hermione was so fond of, in that it had short fur and was quite well-tempered. "Are you hungry, cat?" 

It gave a 'mowr' which I took to mean yes, and I gathered it into my arms and brought it inside for a plate of something. My mum had a fit.

"Ron! Get that thing out," she yelped when she saw it. "Out! We can't keep it, not with Crookshanks already in the house, and the owls -- "

"Mum, I'm just feeding it. And it can stay in my room, away from Crookshanks," I protested. The cat purred in my arms as I scratched behind its ears. The food was forgotten in the argument at large. "And I haven't had a proper pet since Scabbers, and you see what happened to him -- "

"You've got Pigwidgeon!"

"What, that great prat? He's mental, that one is, and he can barely hold half the letters I send with him! What's the point of him, then?"

At this my mum looked for a long while at the marvelously black cat in my arms and the both of us gave her pleading looks. She caved with a defeated sigh.

"Fine," she said, "keep it." I whooped and set off for my room. "But I don't want to see it lurking about in the living room!"

Once in my bedroom, the cat perched at the foot of my bed as I sprawled out beside it. I was thinking of a name when Ginny called me out to the staircase, and after apologizing to the animal on my bed I went out to the landing.

When I came back into the room the cat was no longer on the bed. In its place sat a very pleased looking Draco Malfoy.

"But how did you -- What have you -- " I began to stutter, while a grin spread over his face. 

"You aren't glad to see me?" he said, putting on a pout. Now I grinned, and he chuckled to himself.

"No," I said, "Yes, I mean -- Oi." I leaned close and kissed him. "I've missed you."

Throughout the summer Draco continued to visit me under the guise of the magnificent black cat. He had a portkey in a rusting tin can down the road a bit, and during the daytime he left the emptiness of his house and we spent the day together. His father having been who he was, Draco had learned how to become an animagi with little trouble. He was, of course, unregistered, but there were a great many illegitimate animagus in the world of Wizarding, including names nearly everyone trusted (Rita Skeeter, Snape, Ludo Bagman ... a formidable list), so one boy would hardly stand out to the Ministry. Nevertheless, we were very careful. We kept our voices down while inside the Burrow, and I treated him as a normal cat while around the rest of the family. Crookshanks even took a bit of a liking to him -- he didn't attack or go mental when the two of them were in the same room.

Early seventh year, Ginny discovered that there was more than an unlikely friendship between Draco and I, and she approached me first on the subject. Apparently she had thought something was up, but she had to feel around for it for a while before discovering the truth.

"Ron," she said, "if you were to have a girlfriend, you'd tell us all, wouldn't you?" I could feel the tips of my ears grow pink, but I nodded. Since I wasn't going to be having a girlfriend any time soon, I wouldn't be telling anyone because it wouldn't exist. It was all very logical in my mind.

"Well," she went on, determined to find a fully honest answer from me, "if you had a boyfriend, then?"

I choked, avoided eye contact, but was forced to answer in an undertone, "Draco Malfoy." Her eyes went wide, as she was obviously not expecting his to be the name I uttered.

"A simple yes would have sufficed," she murmured, several shocked moments later. Her curiosity was now piqued. "So you and Draco ... like each other, then?" I nodded happily, and the subject became very easy for me to talk about with her. 

"Very much." She grew eager to learn about it all.

"For how long?"

"Middle of the summer," I said. Her eyes went wide again, and she leaned closer.

"You mean -- " She stopped, covering her mouth with her hands a moment as her mind reeled. "You mean to say that all the while when you -- " She stopped again, but quickly fixed the thought into words and said, "That cat was an excuse to visit Malfoy in the garden?"

"No," I answered slowly, and continued pointedly, "_Draco_ ..._ is_ the cat." She squealed and covered her mouth with her hands again, her eyes as round as saucers.

"He's an animagi?" I nodded. "Wicked! Does anyone else know?" I shook my head, and she composed herself suddenly. "Well, I won't be the one to tell."

And she didn't tell, because no one else found out. Which was exactly what Draco and I wanted.

I was so happy throughout seventh year, while Harry grew increasingly distant and unhappy and Hermione was even more so than Harry. My grades even improved, with Draco there to help me with assignments. At Hogwarts he often used the disguise of his black cat to come into my dormitory because I was expected to have a cat. When he wasn't around, I claimed to have allowed him out on the grounds, that he was an outdoors type of cat, and people seemed satisfied with this.

At the end of my seventh and final year at Hogwarts, it became very clear that Draco and I would be pursuing two very different lives. It had to end sometime. I told him this, and he seemed saddened but understanding. We agreed that after the Leaving Feast, we would say goodbye and not look back.

Draco's mother had secured him a job at the Ministry, and I had managed to meet the owner of the Chudley Cannons through my dad. Apparently I was well liked by the team and owner, because I was invited to join them as a publicity manager, in charge of keeping stories of Rita Skeeter's persuasion from appearing about the team. Eventually, I was the co-owner, and then full owner of the team. When I found a publicity manager as enthralled by the team as I had been, I left it all to him, and in return he has been taking care of me financially ever since, despite the money I made while full owner of it.

I took on a job at the Ministry when my mum fell ill, in the Department of Magical Sports & Games. I've never had so much fun.

And after Draco, I never thought to pursue another serious relationship.

*

"So that's what you and Ginny talked about at our table," said Potter after a moment of silence. Draco Malfoy nodded solemnly, avoiding all eye contact. Hermione, Ron, and Harry said nothing when a great fat tear rolled down the blond man's fair skin and dripped onto his robes; he seemed not to notice. 

"Well," said Hermione in an attempt to resurrect the situation. "I think that perhaps we should take a bit of a break for supper." No one objected. "Then, perhaps, we could get to bed early to get a head start tomorrow morning when we all leave -- "

"We're not all done here, Hermione," Ron said softly, his grey eyes fixed on Malfoy.

"What? Of course we're all done here, we've told our stories," she said, ignoring Potter's pointed nod toward the blond man. "It's done, we understand all that's happened while we weren't looking. That's why we're here, isn't it? I know that _I_ feel closer to you again."

"Hermione, it isn't as simple as -- "

"So we exchange addresses and arrive by Floo Powder," she continued. "We send owls every week." Potter sighed, shrugging to Ron, who shook his head slowly. Hermione got to her feet, straightening out her robes.

"Miss Granger," an oddly detached and silver voice stopped her from leaving the elegant lounge. "We are most definitely not finished here." She sat back down in surprise. "The house-elves will bring supper to us, I think, this evening.

"And no one," he said sharply, "leaves."

* * 


	5. According to Draco Malfoy

Chapter Five: According to Draco Malfoy

* *

Notes: Finally, I have the chance to write from Draco's point of view. My absolute favorite part to write, and therefore the longest because I can. More excuse for slash. Or rather, slash is the excuse for this chapter.

More sweet-heart bad boy Malfoy, which means one thing: le-blanc-jasmin has to be the dedication.

For Sorceress Jade, as well, who should not be confused given that the same story has essentially been told at this point by four different people, unless you disclude Hermione because she was so far into her own little world ... 

JK Rowling, what can I say? For not putting Lucius away sooner and corrupting a perfectly marvelous little blond mind. Also for making Harry Potter a Barbie doll and leaving Ron Weasley out of the limelight once again. Oh, what the hey: for that most awesome and creepy cardboard cut-out at Borders, too -- just for good measure.

* *

Having composed himself greatly, Malfoy summoned the unfortunate house-elf clad in a blanket-kilt to request supper be taken in the lounge. The house-elf scurried away in silence to the kitchens to inform its fellow house-elves, and Malfoy turned his attention to his guests.

"I'm sorry if you don't find my story as important as yours, Miss Granger, but I do, so you will be hearing it." Hermione blanched save for her cheeks, which flushed pink in embarrassment. Malfoy continued smoothly, "Of course, you already know the majority of my tale, as it had already been told by Mr Potter and Ron, but I do have an advantage in telling it, as I happen to have my own perspective in it all. 

"Therefore, I will expect the courteous audience which has been present for the rest of your stories while my truth comes into light," he paused ever so slightly, pale eyes moving from face to face, "and I expect that some opinions shall be changed by the time I've finished."

*

As a Malfoy, I have always been expected to uphold certain standards for my father. My mother was always busy with whatever fling she was involved with at the moment, and I suppose that in some ways it was better that I understood it was happening at the time. It left for little to be surprised about when one of her more unfortunate gentleman callers arrived on the doorstep and was chased from the property by curses my father threw at him.

My father had always worked for the Ministry; he had always worked for the Dark Lord. I understand that some of us are able to drop the Dark Lord's true name as though it were yours or mine, but I have never been able to do so, not even while standing right in front of him. My father was one of the more loyal Death Eaters, and he could say the name whenever he pleased with no trouble at all -- and he did, every chance he was given. He recruited more subjects for the Dark Lord than any other of his kind, and he was rewarded for it in full. My mother ignored this, and pretended it was his job which supported us so well.

As a child I had no true understanding of my father's loyalty to the Dark Lord. It became habit to act haughty and superior in my father's presence, and when I began schooling at Hogwarts it was no different. The high-and-mighty facade was one I wish I had not brought with me to school, because it cost me more than I should have liked to lose.

I was eleven years of lies, manipulations, and secrecy when my first year began. Therefore, I made enemies easily. I quickly sorted those who could be manipulated and those who couldn't, and I kept those unfortunate souls whose minds could be formed at my whim close. However, in light of the old saying, I kept my enemies just as close if not closer, and made a fast habit of exposing the flaws of my rivals before they could expose mine. It was particularly easy for me to deny Weasley his right to be of sound mine. Somehow seeing him writhe in anger and loathing for me was an outlet into which I poured all of the spite I held for my evil father and disloyal mother.

Each year, as I grew and matured, I found that lowering others around me did little for my own benefit. I was popular with the others in my house, most of whom had already become as good as Death Eaters because of their parents and that which was expected of them. It became disgusting to me, but even more unbearable was the difficulty I had shaking off the name I had made for myself -- the name my father had made for the family so many years ago.

And even though I had promised myself I would attempt to shed the shadow my name cast, I slipped severely on several occasions. Fourth year, especially, was difficult for me, as Pansy Parkinson had it in her mind that I should be the one to allow that nasty Rita Skeeter an inside glimpse of Harry Potter and of Hagrid for her columns. She forced me to do it, to tell Skeeter what she wanted to hear. Parkinson threatened to go to my father or to Professor Snape, who had always been fond enough of my father to keep a close eye out for me. When I still refused, she knocked me out with a spell and took the infamous Polyjuice Potion and a bit of blood she took from me while I was unconscious; she fed Skeeter a pile of lies which the woman ate up as though she were one of Hagrid's Blast-Ended Skrewts, their appetites never-ending.

It was actually before all of the betrayal involving Parkinson that I truly found myself shedding the horrid nature expected of a Malfoy. A perfectly marvelous autumn afternoon had been ruined by the utter stupidity of Crabbe and Goyle, who had proclaimed themselves my personal guards as soon as I'd met them. That story is irrelevant, and so I begin this one with my sanctuary in the Great Hall.

I was experimenting with a weather charm I had learned from Professor Flitwick the previous winter, and I had managed a pretty little snowstorm over the table when Potter came in. Not wanting him to see this resigned side of me quite yet, I made sure he saw me throw a hastily made snowball into the midst of some girls at the next table. He seemed unimpressed and sat down with me.

"What do you want, Potter?" He was there without Weasley or Granger, both of whom I continually heckled for various reasons they could have easily sloughed off had they ever thought of the correct thing to say. He had been watching me with interest from the door, and this made me nervous. Nervous enough that I faltered in speaking.

He seemed to notice, but merely shrugged in response. 

"Where are Weasel and Mudblood, then?" I carefully used the nicknames for his friends which I understood angered the three of them, but he still remained fairly unfazed.

"Where are your goons Crabbe and Goyle?" I lay my wand aside, impressed with his comeback. One of them seemed to be learning how to cope. His eyes wandered to the ceiling, which continued to be the same shining blue it had been since he had entered.

"What's the matter with you, eh?" He was startled that I spoke to him again, and he blinked across at me in surprise. "You aren't here with your friends. You choose to sit here, but don't mock me in any way. Supper's not for two good hours, Potter, what good is it to be here now?" I repeated my words in my mind to test if I'd forgotten anything in my summary of the situation. Satisfied, I waited for his reply.

"I was bored." Interesting; he had bypassed the ideas I had been coming up with in silence with a perfectly legitimate excuse. Apparently he thought I expected more of a reason from him, because he went on to say, "Look, what do you want me to say? That I came down here just to bother you, Malfoy, just to see how I could further make an enemy out of you?" 

The enemies I had now were more numerous than any I had ever had -- and Harry Potter was not an enemy I wanted to have. I knew what had happened when the Dark Lord had attempted to kill this boy, I knew how powerful he was, despite the marks he had in his classes.

"No." The words came from my mouth in a most delayed manner. The many thoughts in my mind were slowing the ability of my mouth to form the words.

But it was true, I did not want him as an enemy. In fact, Harry Potter was a person I would rather have fighting by my side. In the sunlight from the ceiling, his skin glowed and his eyes were undeniably his most attractive feature. Perhaps I would rather have him by my side in another way all together ...

"No," I repeated, coming out of my rapidly clouding thoughts, "I don't want you to say that." 

And then a thought came into my mind that had nothing to do with our conversation. A memory, it was, which brought my odds with Potter as much more than an enemy up to a most suitable level. I glanced around the room to be sure that no one was watching us, but it was more for Potter's comfort than my own. I was sure that he would not like this information heard by those chattering Hufflepuff girls at the next table, the ones at which I had aimed my snowball.

"I saw what happened after Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup last spring," I said in an undertone. His eyes grew very round very quickly. However, he remained silent, as though it would go away if he didn't acknowledge my words. I decided to press the issue, seeing that it made him squirm in discomfort. "Have you been writing to Wood, Potter? Do you miss him very much?"

His eyes flickered toward the door, but he remained in his seat. I had him hooked, and I was most pleased. And then he said something which made me question my own memory of the event.

"He was a great Quidditch player," Potter said in a dull tone. 

"Yes," I said, now puzzled more than I should have been. I hadn't _imagined _it ... had I? "Yes, he was ... Quidditch suited him ... "

"What were you implying, Malfoy?" He was on the defense now. Good, it meant that I had, indeed, remembered it correctly. I waved my hand absently, making him more nervous than ever. Again, he glanced to the door.

"Nothing, Potter, nothing. Never mind." I cleared my throat then, watching him as I got to my feet and contemplated leaving it at that. But now I was eager to have Harry Potter in a place that only one other person had ever gotten him -- and I was going to take full advantage of it. I said, "I saw him kiss you, Harry. I know I did not make it up. But if you want to pretend that it never happened, then be my guest." And I left.

I am not stupid. In leaving the Hall, I wanted him to follow me out of the curious stares of those irritating Hufflepuffs. I made my way at a normal pace down the corridor until I heard his footsteps echoing on the stone floors, and only then did I duck into a side corridor and wait for him to come after me. When he turned the corner I grabbed the front of his robes and pressed him to the wall.

It hadn't occurred to me that I might have been a bit rough until he muttered, "Ouch," and closed his eyes, swearing under his breath. I faltered slightly; I didn't want to see him in pain -- it always hurt me to see anyone in pain, let alone anyone so good-looking. When he opened his eyes, recognition dawned on his face, and he said, "Um, Malfoy, I -- "

"Potter, I hold information that you don't want leaking into the public," I told him. He looked a bit frightened, but fright never held him back from anything before, so I did not worry. "Promise me you'll do as I say, and it won't become tomorrow's hot gossip with the Hufflepuff girls. Promise?" 

He nodded, and I kicked a brick just above the floor, which triggered the door of the passage Potter mentioned earlier in his own version of the tale. Again, I pinned him to the wall while the door grated closed again, pressing myself closer to ensure that he would not attempt to break away. 

The fact that he did not seem to realize what I was about to do startled me a bit. I was shaking, nervous, as I kissed him. True, it was the first time I had ventured to kiss another boy, but it was not something I would ever take back if given the option -- even then I would not have taken it back. As I lifted myself from the kiss, I didn't want to pull away altogether. But I was, indeed, rattled, as I was unsure how Potter would react to it; before I could help myself I was crying. My father's son, I had not cried in ten years, and the salt water stung my eyes in a cleansing ritual Nature herself designed.

When I did pull away, I was not sure what to do next. I licked my lips nervously and tasted Potter. It was both unnerving and satisfying to taste him on me.

Potter opened his mouth uncertainly, and I cringed, not wanting him to say what I could hear echoing through my mind -- a fat rejection. Instead, he breathed deeply; and he whispered, "I promise."

I told him to meet me somewhere unobtrusive, I can't remember where now, and swept out of that passage with my hands shaking as though I had just seen the face of the Dark Lord.

I could tell that Potter continued to meet with me because he was worried that I would allow the kiss he and Oliver Wood shared to become public knowledge, but it could not have been much farther from the truth. I hardly gave thought to _that _kiss -- it was the kisses we shared which filled my mind. And we shared many kisses. In that secret passage, in other secret passages, in corridors when we were late to class, late-night outings to deserted classrooms and walkways and alcoves, early mornings on the Quidditch pitch before practice ...

It was dizzying, to feel to strongly about another person. I had never realized that I didn't love my parents until I became involved with Harry Potter. Even more difficult that telling him how I felt, however, was admitting it to myself. It had taken too long for me to be able to love. And maybe that's why Dumbledore invited me back to Hogwarts.

In any case, the infamous summer before sixth year rolled around. But instead of missing Potter more than when we were in the same building, I missed him much less. Out of sight, out of mind, it seemed to be, and before long I was neglecting to write any letters at all. I found my thoughts drifting to one of Potter's familiars -- Weasley.

The more I thought about it, the more I wanted the redhead. I remembered asinine things about him that convinced me that he would accept me with open arms. His petty squabbles with Granger, his unhappiness at the Yule Ball with Padma Patil, his disinterest towards girls as a whole. Not that he showed any significant interest in boys, either; but perhaps the idea had never occurred to him.

So I sent him an owl presenting all of this information. I was torn between being shocked and perfectly delighted that he actually replied to my owl -- and soon we were regular pen pals, writing back and forth about anything that came to mind. Potter was lost among trivial facts about Ron Weasley.

On the train to Hogwarts that autumn, I waited for Ron anxiously. We had agreed to meet early, because Ron, as loyal as he was, had to sit with Potter and Granger in another compartment. At first I thought he wouldn't be coming after all -- and then I saw his mother and Ginny come onto the platform. I was elated, but tried not to show it. He came onto the train after a quick goodbye to his mum and then climbed aboard and found me.

He was so shy. I found it entirely endearing, but he was embarrassed by it. Sitting in the seat beside me, we exchanged friendly 'hello's' as though we always sat together on the train, and began to talk about how the last few days before then had gone. He caught sight of Potter through the window and hastily got to his feet, heading for the compartment he had seen Granger climb into moments before. I grabbed him by his robes and spun him around roughly, catching his lips with my own in a sweetly chaste kiss. Dazed and slightly pink, he stumbled out of the compartment, flashing a grin at me over his shoulder.

Sixth year was brilliant. Ron and I met secretively even more often that Potter and I had. But we didn't always kiss or fool around physically; much of the time we talked for hours about nothing seemingly important. To us, though, it was important -- all of it was, even if we were simply talking about the meal that afternoon in the Great Hall or the exam in Latin or the new charm learned from Professor Flitwick that day, it was important.

The next summer, however, we both suffered severe withdrawal from one another. I missed him so much it ached; more often than not, an owl every week was not enough for either of us. When I slept, I dreamed of him, and while I was awake, I saw him from the corner of my eye every time I entered a room. This summer, it was almost too simple to realize and admit to myself that I was in love.

Now, in an attempt to have me become the youngest Death Eater on record, my father taught me to transfigure myself into whatever animal I desired. Soon I was one of the most talented animagus I knew of, and I was happy with being able to slip away in the form of a black cat. But my father did not know this. Unless I was completely alone, my attempts at a cat were fudged, and I ended up a catfish writhing on the floor, all 'accidents' on my part. He became frustrated and gave up.

What Ron never knew was that I registered with the Ministry right away, and they assigned me to keep close tabs on my father if I so desired. I told them that, if anything unusual happened on our estate, I would be the first to tell them.

But most of my summer was spent at Ron's house. After the slight confrontation with his mother, the most darling woman I have ever met, I was as welcome at the Burrow in my feline form as any of the Weasleys or Hermione and Crookshanks. When we were safely in Ron's room, I was human, and we discussed those importantly trivial matters or held one another or shared another sweet kiss. When we ventured outside, when his mother made him chase the gnomes out of the garden or he simply wanted a bit of fresh air, we slipped into the wood nearby and I could become human again safely. We would climb trees and lay out on the ground to watch clouds swim across the sky until nightfall, when we would count stars until we were dizzy and his mum called him inside. Then I became the cat and another evening of being curled up at Ron's feet was just as comforting as being in his arms as he walked up the stairs.

Seventh year was just as brilliant as sixth. However, this year we had the inevitable graduation from Hogwarts to loom over us, nearly spoiling many lovely moments together around the school. And when the day finally rolled around that we could avoid it no longer, Ron came to me in our most frequently visited secret passage.

"Draco," he said, his tone more serious than in all the time I'd been with him, "we can't last very much longer together, can we?" 

I went numb. Love is fleeting, like happiness -- shouldn't it be gripped tightly and held onto whenever possible? But, understanding that after school ended he would probably be going into Ministry like the rest of his family and I would be taking my mother's job while fighting off Death Eaters eager to have me join their ranks, I was forced to agree that we should end it now, before it became too difficult.

But, damn it, it already _was _too difficult. We didn't end anything until the Leaving Feast on that last evening possible. So, after the Feast, we slipped into our favorite place in the entire castle, a veranda on a tower which overlooked the lake, and said goodbye.

After finishing my education at Hogwarts, I returned to the school upon request of Dumbledore -- I did _not_ take the job offered to me by my mother's employer, as Ron had thought. To this day I don't quite understand why he would want me back in that school, not with who my father was, not with how close I was to the Dark Lord throughout my entire life. I was not kept at Hogwarts as a professor, though one day I hope to take Snape's class if ever he decides to leave.

I work as assistant to Dumbledore, when he wants to send a message or anything, but mostly I work alongside Filch and Mrs Norris. The thought has crossed several students' minds -- yes, cats can see through Invisibility Cloaks. But mostly we don't disturb those students, because they're usually under the impression that they're solving mysteries, as Potter used to do. I patrol the school most of the day, unless I'm summoned -- not magically; when someone comes and finds me -- but rarely am I noticed. I have a nice little room in the castle, where I sleep and read and write letters to various people.

It's quite a peaceful life, and if I had to live my life over again, the only thing I would change would be to not give up Ron so very easily at the end of our seventh year.

*

Potter looked astounded. "You mean you've been right under my nose for the past decade and I haven't even realized it?" Malfoy nodded, melancholy amusement settling into his features.

"But that was the point, wasn't it?" he said thoughtfully. "To becoming a cat, I mean. To be able to be places I would not usually consider very safe or positive places to be."

Potter's amazement did not falter, but Hermione looked positively delighted. "You've been at Hogwarts as well? How thrilling! But ... "

"But what?"

"But, Draco," she said, "if you've known all along that Harry has been at Hogwarts, why did you seem so interested in his position there?" Malfoy smiled knowingly, nodding slowly.

"Well, Miss Granger, it would have ruined my story, would it not?" Her brow furrowed. 

"I suppose ... " She still remained confused, but allowed the subject to be left alone without another word.

* *


	6. The Offer

Chapter Six: The Offer

* *

Notes: No, it isn't the sort of offer Malfoy made in _Tapestry_, but thanks for asking.

I should have done this sooner, but: A-Chan, you've been too good to me with your reviews. Every word on this page is for you.

Sydney, how is this shaping up? Happy, eh? Well, happi_er_, anyway. It'll get more cheerful. Just wait.

And, yet again, I would like to thank JK Rowling. For making Daniel Radcliffe's eyes green for the movie propaganda (calendars, poster books, that creepy cardboard cut-out, et cetera) and therefore messing with one of his more attractive features.

* *

Ron lay awake, staring up at the ceiling with no particular thought in his mind. And then -- he froze. Tiny, soft feet were padding across the thick blanket over his legs, and two pale eyes materialized out of the darkness.

"Draco," he reprimanded, taking the cat in his arms and smiling slightly. "Don't do that." Setting the cat on the mattress beside him, Ron turned on his side, his back to the animal as it transfigured itself into a lanky blond man in the darkness. He slid almost noiselessly beneath the blankets, wrapping his arms around Ron's waist and nuzzling the nape of his neck.

"I meant what I said, you know." Ron hummed, feigning the moments before sleep while his eyes stared into the shadows of the room.

"About what, exactly?" Draco nuzzled closer, breathing deeply and exhaling in a content hum.

"The only thing I regret is giving you up so easily." Ron turned over, facing the blond man, though he could barely see him in the pitch black of the room. "Oh, don't look so surprised. I love you, you should know that." 

"Don't kid yourself, Draco; it's been years since any of that -- "

"So you're going to tell me that love can't survive the ages?" His pale eyes had narrowed considerably, though his touch was just as gentle as he hugged Ron's middle loosely. "I thought I was crazy at first, thinking I still loved you ... and when I saw you for the first time, in the lounge with the others ... I tried to tell myself that it was just nerves. But, Ron, it's not just nerves or any of that -- these past days have shown me that. This feeling I've got is as strong as it was when we were kids, if not stronger."

"Draco ... "

"If it was love then, it's love now," he said softly. "And it always will be, come what may. Even you can't argue that." 

*

The red bedroom was empty when Draco woke the next morning. By the look of it, Ron had dressed and slipped out quite a while ago -- the sheets were cold and the pair of red silk pajamas were folded neatly on a nearby chair. The blond sighed heavily as he transfigured into the sleek black cat he so very often was. It was so much easier for him to be a cat. To be able to slip soundlessly down corridors without being questioned. To visit Hermione's bedroom -- 

He realized grimly that he would no longer be able to visit the other two rooms as a mere household pet. Potter and Hermione now knew of his feline alias ... It would behoove him to remain in human form now. No more secrets, no more lying.

In a stroke of utter random nature, Draco had a thought which startled even himself. Perhaps he could make it work, if Granger would allow herself to -- 

As resolutely as a cat can make its way down a marble corridor, Draco Malfoy did, and he arrived in the dining room just as Potter took a seat at the long, placid table.

*

"I would like to propose something," Malfoy said suddenly, "something ridiculous and absurd -- though not because I don't want it myself." He looked around at them with hunger in his eyes. "It's ridiculous because it would benefit all of us; it would even, probably, make us all happy. No guarantees, of course, but -- " An expression of helplessness crossed his cold features, and he sighed. "But I want it to work."

Potter looked at him suspiciously, but said, "What's the proposition?"

"To judge its absurdity we need to know what it is," Hermione agreed. Even Ron was nodding, his gaze riveted on the pale eyes of Malfoy.

"Well . . . " He sighed again, more softly and privately, and closed his eyes. Then, with a flicker of determination, his eyes opened and moved from figure to figure. "Come live with me. All of you." A moment of surprised silence followed, and Malfoy's pale skin blushed pink.

"What of our families?" Hermione managed at last. "Would Ryce and Wesley come here to live, as well?"

"I don't know what the custody looks like between you and Neville, Hermione," he said hastily, "so I don't know exactly how often you have them. But -- yes, of course." She appeared torn between feeling relieved and finding something to be worried about.

"Draco," Potter spoke up, "I live at the school for the duration of the year -- as you do, as well -- and always volunteer to stay over during Christmas. You can't Apparate into or out of Hogwarts -- you know that."

Malfoy looked even more helpless, and he grappled with an answer. "Stay over on summer holidays, then -- maybe I didn't think this through well enough before suggesting it -- but you're all here, now, and I may never get the chance again." He peered anxiously around at them, apparently forgetting his usual Malfoy demeanor. "Look, I know we didn't exactly have close friendships as kids, but this whole thing was about second chances, about becoming even closer than at Hogwarts.

"It would not kill me if you declined," he finished, "but at least take some time to think about it before answering. Please."

*

As Hermione Granger packed the small overnight bag she had brought with her, her mind was reeling with possible ways to answer Malfoy's proposition.

As much as she would like to stay, she could say, Ryce and Wesley need a secure life after what they've been through. They need to have dependability, and Neville -- 

"Don't bring Neville into this," a voice in the back of her mind said. And she agreed with it.

She simply couldn't live with Ron Weasley, she could say, because they'd never gotten along and now would not be the ideal time to teach old dogs new tricks ... 

She had work to do for the _Prophet_, an article about the new professors at Hogwarts and the school's relationship with Durmstrang and Beauxbatons. If she didn't have it finished in time, her editor would go mental.

Or, she thought grimly, she could just say no to it all. No excuses, just a simple no. He had said he wouldn't die if any of them decided they wouldn't stay. 

As she finished packing the small bag, a thought struck her mind and stuck there.

She could always just say yes.

*

The bedroom was decorated in deep shades of green, and Potter liked it very much. He had spent the remainder of the morning there, after Malfoy's offer, and he was having a bit of trouble grappling with the decision.

He didn't dislike Malfoy. It was just that ... well, seeing him after so many years was painful, as Malfoy had said in the beginning, and it did sting a little to hear about his strong feelings for Ron, and it did hurt to see the way Malfoy had been looking at Ron since they arrived. Would it be really all that weird between them if the three of them chose to stay?

If it was difficult for him, he would be at school for nine months of the year, and he could always just opt out at any time. Malfoy had installed that option, had he not? It wouldn't be disastrous to divorce himself from the family once he had found it impossible to cope anymore.

He didn't have any family left, not really, anyway. The Dursleys he had abandoned long ago, much to their relief. Sirius had found a niche within the walls of Hogwarts, as well, so he saw him often. What other family did he have? None.

He might as well join Malfoy's little suggested family, even if on a trial basis. And they were all on good terms, if not the best ever, so ... Why not?

Potter left the green bedroom, his stomach so tied up with nerves that he did not notice when he almost ran down the sleek black cat, which jumped aside just before having its tail flattened by Potter.

*

When Ron Apparated, he found himself in an airy gazebo across the grounds from the massive white and marble house. He turned his back on it, trying to imagine how he could ever call this place his home. His home was the Burrow, the Ministry, Hogwarts -- 

And very suddenly he wondered what it was about those places that made them his home. The answer came to him soon enough: _the people_. And if he and the rest of them were on good enough terms, they might as well -- 

His mind flitted to the injured look in Harry's eyes when Malfoy had been telling his story. Were they _really_ on terms as good as that? Living together, well ... that was a big commitment. And, as had been drilled into his mind many years before, commitment this significant was always sealed with marriage, no matter if you married pureblood or not. Ron supposed grimly that this included not only muggle ancestry, but also gender and social status and the possibility of evil lurking in one's past. After all, Malfoy -- 

Draco's _parents _were evil. A cheating mother and a Death Eater for a father. Why, it was little wonder he -- 

"If your wondering," a smooth voice said from behind him, "and know that you are, I turned my father in to the Ministry and Azkaban." Ron spun around to see Malfoy standing on the steps of the gazebo. He was smiling a melancholy smile, one which told Ron that it pained the blond man to speak those words.

"Oh." 

"Yes," said Malfoy dryly, "Yes, 'Oh'." He chuckled humorlessly, and glanced at Ron with a longing demeanor. "Ron, I really want you -- and Hermione, and Pot--Harry -- to stay. I want this to work for us."

"I hope it does, Draco," Ron replied. "I hope it does."

"I've never had a family, you know? I guess even Harry had more of a family than I ever had," he said slowly. "At least he was noticed while he was with his aunt and uncle and cousin, right? But me, no. I've only known a mother who spent her wicked life in the bedroom and a father who served a Dark Lord." He looked at Ron with teary eyes. "You'll stay, though, won't you? Even if they don't?" He nodded toward the house when he said, 'they,' and hesitated afterward, waiting. Ron also hesitated.

"Well, it really is an intriguing offer, but ... " Draco looked off into the pond beyond the gazebo, wounded.

And before Ron could stop him or stay anything to comfort the blond man, Malfoy was pressing him against one of the pillars holding up the roof, his mouth rediscovering Ron's eagerly. When the kiss broke, Malfoy turned away quickly, taking to the steps.

"I'm running out of ideas to convince you that I'm still in love with you," he said, and changed into a cat before running back up to the house.

* *


	7. Epilogue

Chapter Seven: Epilogue

* *

Notes: This just about wraps it up. Well, it_ does_ wrap it up. So enjoy.

For sweetgirl -- remember, this is the last chapter. I hope it finds you well.

Ditto for Sorceress Jade (Completely non-confusing up to this point? I hope so ... ) and Sydney (The happiest ending of them all!).

On a much more serious note, I would like to sincerely thank JK Rowling for creating these most amazing characters for all of us here in the Harry Potter section of Fanfiction.net to enjoy. The world would not be same without Draco Malfoy, who I have greatly enjoyed turning into a cat for the duration of this piece. Oh, and thanks for making Viktor Krum a sincerely good guy at the end of _... the Goblet of Fire. _He's my absolute favorite character and I wish he and Hermione much happiness in the fiction to follow.

* *

The redhead gazed up at the shining gold numbers above the door before glancing once again at the weathered envelope in his calloused hand. With a heavy, tired sigh, he lifted his second hand to the massive gold knocker and gave it a loud rap. A house-elf wrapped in a blanket as though it were a kilt gazed up at him with wide eyes, and he was lead through the elegant corridors of the house to a large and airy lounge with sweeping glass doors and overstuffed chairs laden with cushions. The house-elf disappeared, leaving him alone in the huge room.

A moment later, the glass doors opened, and a stately woman dressed in expensive robes came into the room.

"Wesley, come on, you've got to -- " She saw the redhead and stopped short, her eyes showing her disbelief. "Oh," she said slowly, and the redhead got to his feet. "Hello."

"Hello indeed," the redhead said, a small smile playing on his lips.

"I was just looking for Wesley," she faltered as he came closer, "You know, Hogwarts starting up again in a few days and all that ... the train leaves ... "

But the woman never finished her thought, because the redhead was wrapped around her, his lips dancing over hers in a long-awaited kiss.

Nearby, sitting on an ornately carved wooden chair, a sleek black cat watched the scene with great interest, a smile apparent on his velvet face. And as he padded out of the room to find another redhead and a pair of green eyes, Hermione Granger and George Weasley made up for time long lost in the game we call life.

* *

Notes: Well, kids, this is it. I'm finished with this most satisfying piece of fiction. Hopefully you've all stayed with me thus far.

To those who haven't, I dedicate my next story.

To those who have, I would like to thank with all the Harry Potter merchandise I own. No, that doesn't mean you get to keep it -- I just used up all of my sincerity on thanking Rowling this time around. So, Harry Potter merchandise takes its place.

Six stickers and a day calendar has got to be worth something.

*

As the author of this story and the notes before each chapter, I would like to apologize for being so harsh on JK Rowling. It's easy, sometimes, to become carried away with my cynical comments, which I should keep to myself when they create the chance of offending someone in the process. 

However, if you found my snotty and obnoxious 'thank-yous' to Rowling humorous, ignore this apology and get on with your life before I sic the creepy Borders cut-out on you.

* *


End file.
